


Spitting Dandelions

by Comade



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Drama, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, i'm a sucker for a hurt jaskier so, it probably has already been done but, maybe yennefer in the second part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comade/pseuds/Comade
Summary: Flowers were such pretty, delicate things. Always a source of inspiration for any poet, but not so much when they crawled up the poet's throat though. As Jaskier walked away from Geralt, he felt far from inspired by the blood and petals gathering in his mouth.Jaskier has been given a chance to die, to cower from his heartache. Because sometimes, the best thing a flower could do was die.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 397





	Spitting Dandelions

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The bard felt them coming up before the last words even hit him. Maybe he already knew, maybe his body could sense it. Maybe he had known his friend's real feelings all along but had prefered to ignore it. The petals in his body did not offer him such pleasant things as denial, and now that Jaskier felt the itch intensify in his lungs, it was a little harder to shield himself from the truth. The uncomfortable sensation spread to his throat, and he knew he had to force some words out of his pathetically quivering lips before the sickness took over. “Right,” he choked out, “I'll--” his stomach lurched and the brunet stopped mid sentence, his face barely flinching as he tried to conceal the gag trying to escape his throat. He threw a tentative glance towards Geralt and saw that this one hadn't turned around, hadn't even spared him a brief look.

His heart sank a little deeper as the itch fully propaged to his throat, and, too used to it, Jaskier simply inhaled deeply through his nose and closed his throat as much as he could before stepping away, knowing he couldn't stay here since neither his heart or sickness would allow him to. His footing was irregular and his pace way too quick as he left, but he knew Geralt wouldn't be paying attention anyway, so the bard let himself stumble away, trying to put as much distance between him and anyone else before he'd be taken over by the itch in his throat. He soon felt a scratching in his laryinx. It was gathering, stuffing his body, and the tears in his eyes started burning, blurrying his vision as he stepped over yet another rock. He took another two steps and felt yet another gag shake his body before his legs buckled from under him, letting him crumble to the ground. He landed on his knees and leaned forward as the first cough tore through his throat. His eyes squinted at the pain and he barely felt the tears rolling down his cheeks as he brought his hands to his neck. As he tried to take another breath, he felt the roots inside of him caressing the walls of his throat and was shaken by another gag, soon followed by a fit of cough. His nails clawed at his skin as the petals crawled out of his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to ignore the warm feeling of blood inside his mouth not to gag again. A minute or two passed, the bard staying completely still, despite his shaking limbs. When Jaskier was sure he wasn't going to cough again or throw up, he reopened his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Oh god,” he moaned when he felt the soreness of his throat.

Turning his head to the side, the brunet spat out the blood that had gathered on his tongue before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Shaking his head, he stood up again, and waited a few seconds to regain his balance. The dizziness dissipated after a few seconds, and, grabbing the lute he had accidentaly dropped on the ground as he had fallen, Jaskier started walking again, trying to ignore the aching in his heart as he stepped away from the witcher, away from his fate. He would be fine eventually, the brunet was sure of it. He would just have to get used to it, just like he had gotten used to the petals. He would be fine, and then, in a few months, the roots would've taken over and there would be no need to be fine at all.

“ _Are you alright?”_

_Jaskier opened his eyes and his glance landed directly on the boots in front of his face. Crouched down, he looked up at the witcher standing before him, who was already wiping his bloodied sword directly onto his sleeve. That one was looking down at him with a slight look of concern on his face. Jaskier couldn't help himself but see annoyance in his furrowed eyebrows. Whilst he had been fighting waves of nekkers, the brunet had found a way to be a nuisance, spitting his lungs in the background and diverting the witcher's attention, just enough for a creature to dig its claws into Geralt's calf as that one called out his bard's name in worry._

“ _Yeah, yeah I--” Jaskier was interrupted by another cough tearing through his throat, and resumed with a laugh, trying to fake a bit of carelessness. “These beasts were so horrendous I found myself choking on my saliva.”_

_Geralt's scowl didn't even shift a bit. He lifted his chin, his nostrils ever-so-slightly flaring as he smelt the air. “I can smell blood,” he grunted, before correcting himself, knowing the bard was about to tell him it was from the liquid still dripping from his sword, and definitely not in the mood to play games. “Your blood.”_

_Jaskier's heart missed a bit and he scolded himself for not going through when he had held a knife to his leg a minute before Geralt arrived, ready to mislead his senses. “Oh, that,” he quickly recoiled, “I stumbled,” he said, wincing at his own terrible excuse. He could still blame this on the dizziness created by his fit of coughs, he could almost feel the gears in his head spinning out of rhythm._

_The witcher rolled his eyes at his friend before turning around, promptly leaving him on the ground. “You'll patch it up yourself, I'm tired of being your damn personal healer,” he growled. Jaskier felt something in his throat. It wasn't scratching nor itching, it was a single petal coming up to rest on his tongue, a simple but harsh reminder._

“ _Why, Geralt, when I thought a good killing always put you in a good mood,” he snorted before he casually fished the petal in his mouth to lightly toss it aside._

_It slowly glided in the air before gently landing on the ground, and Jaskier winced at the crimson tint covering its natural color. His foot swiftly bumped into it as he stood up, shoving it towards the little stack of bloodied petals hidden under a pile of dried leaves, before Jaskier went off once again, strutting behind the witcher. If that one noticed the faint smell of blood and tears once the bard reached him, he didn't comment on it._

“Oh Fishmonger's--”

Another petal flew in the air, new drops of blood splattering on Jaskier's undershirt. He had discarded his doublet maybe a day or two ago when it had barely been dirtied by him. There was only a few spots near the collar covered in blood, and yet the scent had made him sick, and he had thrown it away, foolish enough to think his undershirt would stay pristine clean for a while, just enough time for him to reach a village and buy some new garments. It had been pure wishful thinking and only an hour after he had been caught in another fit of coughs. Within minutes, a few spots of red could already be noticed on his clothing.

Now Jaskier simply looked more dishevelled than he ever had. Even though he appreciated to rock the open doublet and undershirt on display when he wasn't performing, his attire looked more like he had encountered some angered bandits, probably on account of the blood splattered all over it, almost looking like it had dripped from his neck, reminiscent of a time he'd rather not remember. He looked terrible, he was more staggering around than sauntering, he could feel his paleness, and he didn't even want to know just how dark the circles under his eyes were. The only thing he could be sure of was his hair since the days had surprinsingly lacked any wind lately, but at this point he wasn't sure he really cared about it anymore.

“Fishmonger can kiss my lovely arse,” the bard grumbled as he wiped the blood of his chin with the back of his hand.

He put the lute back in its case a little more carelessly than he normally would, slightly thankful when the instrument didn't just miss his back and land directly on the ground. The brunet was exhausted. He didn't know for how long he had been walking, and he knew he had already made worse distances with Geralt, but things were way different when he had someone to annoy and plants weren't tearing through his larynx every two hours. Seeing a wide tree on the side of his path, Jaskier felt a smile spread across his face as he reached it and let himself flop down under it, leaning back to rest against the trunk.

The sun was still shining high in the sky and the tree was providing him a good shelter. Jaskier let a content sigh escape his lips as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His legs felt sore and his back was on fire but at this moment, at this very moment, Jaskier felt at peace. Maybe he could stay here. Let fate decide of what was going to happen to him. There were worse places to die in. “Might the blood drown his words,” he started quietly singing, despite his hoarse voice, “quench the hollowness of--” he suddenly choked on something and found himself swallowing down the petals before he could make himself cough it out. He felt it going down and winced at the sensation, really close to gagging. “Fucking--” he got up, almost stumbling in the process, and kicked the nearest branch, swearing and cursing because he was exhausted and angry and wondering how he could be so replaceable.

“Screw him!” he yelled, kicking another rock and very much hurting his delicate foot on it.

He crouched down, slightly panting, with a hand sprawled on the ground for balance. His eyes were closed as he tried to regain composure as well as catching a breath, when he felt a strong glow behind his eyelids. Curious, he reopened his eyes only to find himself being blinded by the light. The brunet squinted his eyes and started bringing a hand up to cover his vision, until his eyesight adjusted, and he finally saw the sun setting in the horizon, casting a fiery orange hue over the hill. He stared at it for a few seconds, wide-eyed and motionless, until a radiant smile spread across his face. The view was beautiful, and, even just for a moment, made him forget about his throat.

When Jaskier had left his hometown, looking for adventure, he had been lucky to encounter Geralt. The infamous, incredible Geralt of Rivia. With him, he had seen everything he had ever dreamed of, including the most horrenduous beasts he could've ever imagined, but especially breathtaking sights that inspired him more and more everyday. As soon as he had stepped away from the witcher, the bard had felt like it had all gone away and all of his hopes had turned to dust. But maybe, just maybe, everything wasn't due to Geralt, and there were still many sights to behold, lungs full of petals or not.

Jaskier wasn't sure yet if he wanted a life without Geralt, but he had just decided he was not in a rush, and he still had time to find out.

He had been given a chance to die, to cower from a heartache, as if even an artist couldn't make good use of this pain and it was better to die than to let himself falter under the weight of it. Because sometimes the best thing a flower could do was die. But, with his bloodied undershirt clinging to his skin, his teeth tasting of metal and his eyes wide and stupefied, Jaskier was starting to feel like a tormented soul from the songs he always played, and it inspired him like it never had before. Because what was a bard good for except for finding light where there was nothing, and power where there was suffering. He found in his own agony a new spark, a new desire, inspiring a poet not to loath in his own misery but to fight and indulge into these adventures he always sang about, to live this craze he glorified and to become his own muse.

So, with his right hand still scenting of blood and salt, and his nails still broken scratching of his neck, Jaskier fished his lute out of his case and got up to start walking again, strumming the chords and singing until he had no more petals to spit.

“ _Might the blood drown his words_

_Quench the hollowness of his heart_

_'Til a tree be reborn_

_From the bard's corrupted lungs”_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to write in months and I don't know how, but this ship inspired me enough to start again. That's just how powerful geraskier is, I guess. Damn them.  
> Thanks for reading x


End file.
